


A Book, Its Cover, A Story.

by curlycomfort



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabbles, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, M/M, One-Shots, prose
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-03-23 18:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13793469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlycomfort/pseuds/curlycomfort
Summary: Johnlock drabbles, one-shots, of every sort.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have fixed a desire to create a habit of writing everyday. The works posted in each chapter won’t be that long, but I only wish to express what I could manage in that moment. Perhaps, with practice, I could write down more than these few lines.
> 
> I do admit as well that I’m quite shy about posting this but nonetheless wish to share my writing, as ridiculous as it it.
> 
> Enjoy. :)

Light fingers trailed down his back, soft raindrops sending shivers against his skin as a warm hand pressed itself on the small of his back, leaving a hot seal, electrifying, pure.

Bliss.

Hot breath met his neck, world tipping aside just as his back was pressed against wall and firm hips pressed against his own.

”’Tis time, the world, the universe, shall watch as I ravish your beauty.” Said he, peppering feather kisses, the tip of his nose sliding across the expanse of his arching back.

Brandishing words met neck. “But only I shall truly know why you’ve been conformed of such beauty.” Perplexing lips trailed objectively.

His head was tipped aside, now the breath was against his own, tongue teasingly sliding in between open lips as his mouth encased his own, tongue meeting tongue, desire with desire.

Minutes, hours, possibly days transcurred before they parted, the need of oxygen suddenly becoming an enemy.

” _John,”_ __ __His soft exhale ravished, and the man could only reply with his lover’s name, mouth parted open in a silent sigh of pleasure as the man behind him made love to him sweetly.


	2. Water is a beauty.

He was _drowning_.

No, he was _floating_. His body turned on its own accord, letting him see his surroundings while simply laying? Letting himself be there.

It was peaceful, a feeling unlike any other. His body had long stopped its convulsion, and he was making his descent to the bottom of the Thames.

John couldn’t remember moments like this. There was the constant clash of bottles, glass breaking against the table, head, anywhere. There was the constant gunshots, claiming a victim on their transverse, edging themselves uninvited and sucking out vitality.

Then there were the cases, the polices sirens, the mad genius, god the man was everything that would form up a god, his curls, that dramatic coat. Who was he to stand besides that beautiful man?

Apparently, Sherlock wanted it.

Now he knew that there was no feeling that the water surrounding his senses could compare to. No, this was not the most extraordinary feeling in the world.

Being by his side, sharing those intimate moments that the man only served him at the harbour of privacy, that, that was the best feeling. The feeling of porcelain skin hands worshipping his battered body like a treasure, that, that was the best sensation.

Now he hated to be floating.

But his body refused, wouldn’t allow him to persevere in meeting up with him again. 

That’s when he saw it, he saw _him_.

Even while in that state, desperate to get to his lover, Sherlock looked gorgeous, undescribable beauty.

When he blinked, he suddenly was laying on his back, coughing up water and staring blearily at a mass of wild curls. 

He smiled, this was his heaven.


	3. Chemical Reactions

The young boy, probably younger than ten, sat, lonely, but rather focused on what he had in front of him. Curly locks adorned the child’s head, compromising his wish of being taken seriously as, let’s face it, the kid was adorable.

But he had the fangs of a venomous snake.

People obviously learned about this the hard way. They just didn’t expect it, for a child to be so conscious of the world. He was like a thirty year old man trapped in the body of a child, carrying himself around importantly and putting adults in place.

Which really no one liked.

Sherlock didn’t care, he didn’t even think not one bit about having a friend. Either his classmates were still under the effect that stupidness brought the youth, or they were down right arseholes that bullied Sherlock into believing he was a freak.

Sherlock was no freak, he was a perfectly astute being of society that simply was looked down upon for being actually in a place far much above them. They didn’t matter, they would eventually drift off into faceless people that would eventually be discarded from his freshly built mind palace.

Ah yes his mind palace. It towered threateningly, storing his important discoveries. There weren’t many people that had managed to make it in it, roughly his mum dad... and Mycroft.

So overall Sherlock was quite happy with the peacefulness, allowing him to admire how the substances mixed together in the testing tube, God knows where he had gotten it from, and pouring it into another tube containing a brittle powder.

Absorbed in his own matters, had he not realized the blond boy that sat down next to him. Until-

“Hullo,” So big was his startle, having believed to be alone, the tube went flying through the air, landing mercilessly on the grass. Its contents poured out in copious amounts, staining the ground, draining his experiment. 

Sherlock thought he could strangle whoever did this.

He shot a glare to the boy next to him, ready to snap back but stopped himself before any words could be said, taking in the boy, _John Watson_ , his mind provided. Ah yes, the silent boy that sat besides him in Literature class. A distracted boy but nonetheless one that could prove adults wrong with his affinity for medicine.

”I’m sorry... I didn’t meant to startle you...” The boy profused, genuinely mortified at the ruined experiment that laid on the grass.

Sherlock noticed the error in his grammar but nonetheless commented not on it.

That’s when his gaze flickered across him, taking in the details he had overlooked previously.

Tear-stricken face.

Reddened cheek.

Puffy eyes, _probably from rubbing to much_.

His gaze softened considerably. “No ah, don’t worry about it. I was actually about to pour it on the ground, to... ah make plants grow faster?”

It was not difficult to put two and two together. John Watson was a sweet kid, probably one of the only ones that secretly admired his deductions, whispering to himself  _Brilliant_ , too shy to dare say them out loud. Most would overlook the rather ordinary boy, but home wasn’t really a place to call _home_.

John was born in the wrong family, and as of that came tough days including verbal, and possiby _physical_ abuse. The thougnt only made him grimace. Humanity was slowly descending into the flames of destruction, and this was just only one detail.

The least he could do in exchange of the boy’s murmured awe was to be nice, if not at least polite.

The boy offered him a timid smile. “I don’t think that was really the purpose.” In front of them, the spot where the tube had landed on had turned an angry black, and rather interestedly, the chemical bubbling up on it.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, gears turned in his mind and he suddenly was on his feet, grasping John’s shoulders shaking him back and forth vigorously.

”That’s, IT John.” He said brightly, spinnig him around, ignoring the confused stare from the blond.

“This could be the answer to a very important investigation!” Sherlock’s excitement roared brightly. He finally placed his classmate down, deductions whirling in his mind, taking up a new order and giving a _sense_ to things.

He clapped his hands together and grasped John’s wrist in his, who had said nothing at the sudden outburst.

”Come with me John, there’s data to collect, a mystery to solve!” The curly haired child started walking, forgetting the possibly hazardous experiment behind.

Behind him, John smiled, sniffling one last time as excitement rushed through him at the prospect of accompanying the astute Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Dear John Watson,

Today was a good day. We finally managed to solve the Rose Venom case. You were right, the sister had been too quiet throughout our interview. We found her garden of roses on her basement. You would be surprised by how she managed to grow that specimen of flowers on a dark room. You should’ve seen her expression when we barged in her house. It was priceless.

You should’ve been there.

On another note, today wasn’t a good day because you were not there. I often found myself asking questions to you only to realize that in fact you were not there and I had been speaking to nothingness all along.

I’m visiting you today, not after I finish this letter and placed it along the others I’ve accomodated in a box for when you come back with us.

I still trust you will do, wake up I mean. You’ve been laying motionless for two weeks now, and just now I have realized a mistake. A very grave mistake that I shold’ve seen before.

I didn’t value your presence until now. The flat’s too quiet, there is no one that can silence those screaming thoughts with the simple touch of a hand.

But you promised, and I still hold you up to it, that you’ll find your way back.

These are the three things that I thought about you today (As I always add to every letter):  
1\. The way you look at me.  
2\. Your oatmeal coloured jumper.  
3\. Your endless love for a madman like me.

Tomorrow will be a new day. Consider it a new start, an opportunity to come back to us.

Because the world and Sherlock Holmes, the man that is madly in love with you, wouldn’t be the same without John Watson on the world.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes.


	5. He learned that he could.

John liked to think that his mother was the only person that believed in John. But years later, when John looked back to those sweet moments with her, he wasn’t really shocked to realize.

She didn’t believe on him as well.

Of course she was caring, one of the nicest people John has had the fortune to meet, but being nice is different from believing on someone. And that is exactly what he realized he had been mixing together. John couldn’t blame her, their family was complicated, and it wasn’t uncommon for one’s trust in themselves to dissolve in thin air.

So, how did John Watson manage to get to this point? A man, a doctor, recently discharged from the army for a shoulder wound. He liked to think that at least he had himself, but once again he realized this was not at all correct when he started cleaning his gun every day, staring at himself in the mirror and wondering what the hell had he done with his life.

Until he met Sherlock Holmes.

He, the brilliant sharp cheeked man that had blown him away with his deductions. When he moved in to Baker Street, he thought it might have been a cruel play from destiny.

Because, if he hadn’t met with Mike and allowed him to introduce him to the consulting detective, in that instant he might’ve been in the morgue already. And not examining a corpse.

You might get the idea.

After that, John started having good days, of course, he still wasn’t rid of the depressive downpour that laid over him every now and then.

And there are times where he laughs nonstop, and others where he has to hold his breath in to sob silently, but he is healing. Slowly, slowly, but surely.

Because, the world had given John its back for far too long.

But fortunately, Sherlock was the only one astute enough to see this and prove him just how worth he really is.

And so that is what the detective had running through his mind, standing still outside John’s room, hearing, almost silent, recognizing the signs of another bad day.

He didn’t deserve that at all.

Sherlock was never wrong.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got no inspiration... Ah anyone has any requests? I’m open to everything, I’m just having trouble liking my writing.
> 
> Sorry if it’s short ^0^

When he died, he was a nobody. Harry didn’t even attend to his funeral, and most of the Watsons bid goodbye to a person they didn’t even know well.

When John died, he didn’t rest, simply sat next to his grave silently. People came and went, and not even once did he see his sister. It was foolish to have hopes, he realized, but hope was the only thing that kept him sane in that trap.

That was until a mysterious man approached him, his grave, and simply leaned down to place a bouquet of flowers over the abandoned tombstone.

John hadn’t felt this important until now.


	7. Chapter 7

“And what is the meaning of this? What has anyone done to you to receive such treatment? Why do you only favour John Watson? Explain yourself madman!”

”I have nothing to explain right here, Sir.”

”Yes you do! The way you look at him, talk to him, appreciate him. Why?!”

”Am I not allowed to appreciate things?”

”Well yes but-“

”Am I not allowed to react differently with everyone?”

”Again, yes. But if-“

”Then why so much distaste, fellow?”

”I’m angry.”

”How so?”

”I’m angry at the world, at the skies, the seas and the flowers the wither away at the tombstones of the abandoned.”

”Ah so you are angry at the world.”

”No, I’m angry at you.”

”Me?”

”Yes! Have I not stated it before?”

”You have. It doesn’t justify why your anger must be directed to me.”

”Because I am you and you are me.”

”Nonesense.”

”Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. You have said so yourself.”

”Why dare you not reveal yourself upon me?”

”Because...”

”Go on.”

”Because... Because you are afraid of me.”

”I’m afraid of myself?”

”Quite so.”

”Then how is it that I am you and you are me if I am Sherlock Holmes right here?”

”No, _I_ am Sherlock Holmes.”

“You are Sherlock Holmes. What does that make me?”

”It makes you a new Sherlock Holmes, but I don’t like him.”

”How so?”

”Sentiment.”

”Here we go.”

”Sentiment is a weakness, we should know that by now.”

”Oh no, I assure you it’s not, it’s quite the opposite.”

”Nonesense.”

”Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

”...”

”Not so smug now are you?”

”What happened to you? To us?”

”I realized that the truth in which I lived upon was the worst lie I could tell myself. Sentiment is not weakness, it’s a strength. It’s what makes us human.”

”We are not human.”

”Yes we are. But we were young, we were naive, we thought that we didn’t belong when in reality we didn’t allow ourself to belong somewhere.”

”So just like that? You fell in love with a broken soldier doctor?”

”He was as lost as I was and we helped find ourselves once again.”

”But why him?”

”Because everyone else fails to see just how much there is in that man.”

”And just like that? You’ve let us become a human with feelings?”

”I didn’t let myself, I learned, I realized many things and saw a new beginning.”

“We were better alone.”

”We were perishing on our own.”

”Isn’t that what we wanted? No one liked us, mummy and daddy don’t know how to feel about you.”

”At the end, what matters is whether you let yourself be buried by others.”

”You look happy.”

”I am.”

”You look healthy.”

”I am.”

”You look... loved.”

”Oh believe me, you’ll realize in a couple of years that we are.”

”...”

”It’s just a matter of time.”


	8. Silent Night

John heaved a silent sigh.

Sherlock’s couch. Dusty. Abandoned. Its owner gone for it to never see again. Mrs. Hudson stops by every few hours, but it’s the same. John doesn’t move. He simply stares.

His tea always goes cold.

The first weeks were the hardest. John would wake up from a nightmare’s torment, chest heaving rapidly, tears threatening to run. But waking up and realizing it was all a dream didn’t offer him comfort anymore.

It was still a living nightmare.

The sullen silence reminded John of those times where he would wake up in the same conditions, searching blindly for a gun, to defend himself, to escape the shower of bullets that haunted him. But the soft singing of Sherlock’s violin never failed to dissipate all those thoughts away in an instant.

John couldn’t look at the abandoned instrument anymore. He had to hide it in his flatmate’s room so he wouldn’t break it when an angered fit overcame his calm nature.

At one point he lost track of time. Everything always went in a blur. One moment the flat was showered in the palid rays from the sun, and a blink after, it was dark once again, the city silent, his mind void of any thought. He sometimes became aware of just how pathetic he was for sitting around all day, emptying uncountable bottles of alcohol and staring at the telly without really paying attention to the program. If Sherlock were still alive, he would shake his head in disappointment.

“You’ve become dull John. I thought I had fixed it long ago. But again, you never were dull. Why are you destroying it?”

For a moment, John sat passively, then turned on his side and curled up on the couch. He thought maybe he had just imagined the tall figure that leaned over him every night, watching, observing him mutely.


	9. This is the melody of the mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @VintageFloof requested this. This is quite late, but I hope you find a good read in this piece.

This is the melody of the heart.

The tune of the masters of their connection, the persistent release of emotions through a melody as sweet as the vocal art of the expressionists.

He was the master of his violin, intangible, capable of reshaping the definition of music.

Capable of reshaping the definition of love.

His love wasn't human. Often times he became misunderstood, excluded from the fixed socialization created in the world. He wasn't normal, and he preferred not to be, for the normal saw the world gray, a stable palette, safe and sound, but eventually killing the spark of life within.

He would never die.

This is the melody of time. For the sun settled dreamily to watch the unspoken connection between two mad men. One triumphed with his mind, but perished with his heart; the other triumphed with his heart, but suffered with his mind. Somehow, sometime, the world had decided, that the whole must be completed, and their atributes should be complemented.

This is the melody of the mind, ever precise with his unbeatable precision, speaking to his heart, healing old wounds and dwelling in the reminiscence of their pains.

His love, his life, names he would never be able to elicit explicitly, this was his vessel, a wordless communicator capable of making his word known. His John, his love, he would understand everything he spoke without needing to think of saying it. He was already one step ahead of him, for the heart sometimes beat the mind, old experiences, a maturity that caught its growth after leaving his youth.

Long fingers capable of correctly placing themselves on his instrument without the need to look at it. His eyes only had focus for his John, kindness, neverending, withering slightly with every harsh blow of defense but strengthening in days like this. Sherlock was difficult, and his own mind had cursed him into a solitude that others glorified. He never found happiness in being alone, but sometimes having nothing was better than being accompanied by the medicine for his mind, a pinch fading into the power to expand his world.

The end was not always a happy one, but this one was.

For Sherlock, it was the happy ending he once used to dream of. His adulthood had tired his dreams and energies, but when he had someone like John, his John, jumper clad, military, PTSD suffering John, he felt like a child again, with the prospect of discovering the world ahead of them.

He was the pirate, and John was his treasure.

A kiss softer than any cloud, more addictive than any drug he has had before. John was his anchor, his guardian angel, the love of his life.

John was the adoration of even the simplest of his works, eyes swelled with a moved soul and cascading in a silent ovation to his talents.

The calluses of his hand, taking over his own, guiding him to the next page.

"Take me to bed." A promise, the key to memories of all their pleasures shared.

And guided he let himself be.


End file.
